Early bird specialists

ROWLEY -- Under an almost-full moon, Oscar Fortin unloaded his old green station wagon. He pulled out a wooden samurai sword, a banana box full of old books, a child-size trumpet, and two pairs of cowboy boots.

Within minutes, a pair of bobbing flashlights appeared. Two men were approaching, moving rapidly across the dark, frost-covered field. They swept their lights across the pile of items, then circled the car without a word, leaning in close to peer in the open doors.

The Todd Farm Antique & Flea Market was open for business. It was almost 4 a.m.

Every Sunday morning from April through November, a strange and shadowy ritual plays out on this swath of former farmland 30 miles north of Boston. Driven by a burning desire to be the first to survey incoming merchandise, and a nagging fear of being beaten to the prize, the highly competitive dealers who buy and sell here have ratcheted the outdoor market's start time steadily backward during its 25 years in business.

If a genuine Tiffany lamp or Confederate rifle turns up here on the cheap -- ripe for resale at a hefty profit -- it will vanish long before the sky is streaked with pink. So at the height of summer, when the crowds are thickest and the pre dawn hours mild, Todd Farm fanatics start shopping as early as 2 a.m.

"At first it amazed me, but now I would be shocked if I didn't see the flashlights when I pulled in," said John Warren , 47, of Lynnfield, a part-time farm employee. "It's become normal to me now. But people who have never seen it -- they see the flashlights coming toward them and they get freaked out."

Hard-core customers are gone by 6 or 7 a.m. The market officially closes at 3 p.m., but late in the season, some dealers start packing up at noon.

Early last Sunday morning, the temperature hovered near freezing. Only a few cars idled on the field by 3:30 a.m. The flea market season, scheduled to run through Nov. 26, was winding down, but a small, energetic group of first-comers bundled in boots, hats, and gloves still jogged to meet every truckful of merchandise as it arrived.

Vince Milano , wearing military fatigues and his trademark Hermann Meyer cap, patrolled the flea market grounds like a general surveying the battlefield. As his 16-year-old son slept nearby in his truck, Milano strode purposefully from dealer to dealer in the dark, searching for items to buy and resell at his military collectibles shop in Brentwood, N.H.

He leaned in close with his flashlight to examine a tray of antique military badges propped in the bed of a pickup truck. "That's Spanish-American," he said of a badge with a red, white, and blue ribbon attached. Milano peeled $75 off his roll of bills and marched away with his purchases: a handful of vintage badges and an Australian slouch hat.

"There's a lot of competition on this field, and some people get twisted over something you got that they didn't," he said. "To be successful, you can't worry what someone else got."

In the pre dawn hours at Todd Farm, nobody "browses." This is aggressive, focused searching, done mostly by men -- shopping as a competitive, outdoor sport, almost like hunting.

But the flea market, for all its competitive fervor, is close-knit, especially among early birds, and devotees say they abide by basic etiquette. If a price is fair, several regulars said, they don't try to haggle it down to a steal. Fellow shoppers alert one another to good buys; as Milano made his rounds, an acquaintance pointed him toward a nearby dealer selling a World War II field bag for $15.

Dealers on the field include doctors and college professors who dabble in antiques as well as cash-strapped retirees who depend on their flea market sales to pay the bills. Fortin, 53, of Plaistow, N.H., said he has struggled to make ends meet in recent years. He fishes some of his best flea market merchandise out of trash bags in upscale neighborhoods, where he says he is constantly amazed at what people throw away.

Rich or poor, all are equal on the flea market field, where the prize of the morning could emerge from anyone's trunk.

"Everybody's just Joe here," said Starr Todd , who runs the flea market with his wife, Dottee .

Mustachioed and unpretentious, he likes to joke that the "T" in Todd Farm should be silent.

After years of feuding about the future of the property, Todd said, he and his brother have agreed on a plan to divide the farm between them, ensuring that the flea market will continue. The event will move to the other side of the property, where it will accommodate more than the current maximum of 240 sellers, he said.

More dealers could hardly produce a more eclectic spread of goods. Last Sunday, there were Partridge Family records and a giant red and black swastika banner draped over a van. There was an antique wooden sleigh, ready for hitching to a jingling pony, a stack of Confederate money (possibly counterfeit, acknowledged the buyer, who paid $10) and a seemingly endless supply of old farm tools, Matchbox cars, and casserole dishes.

Terry Bennett , a physician and browser from Rochester, N.H., once bought a sculpture of a spouting whale made of stainless steel surgical instruments.

A human skeleton in a bag -- recovered from a doctor's estate in Portsmouth, R.I., and missing its lower jaw -- was snatched up early Sunday for $175.

The dealer, who declined to give his name, was not without misgivings.

"Maybe it crossed the line," he said. "What would God think?"

Jenna Russell can be reached at jrussell@globe.com.